This is My Song Read online

  He was quiet for a long time, either sleeping stiff and straight as if in a casket or lying with his eyes opened to the shadows that flickered on the ceiling. My mother read to him but he did not seem to hear, moving in and out of a trance as a sylph slips unseen through chambers of light. Neither Marika nor I left the apartment. Our father’s bashing had drawn energy from us all. We too were a formless pulp while outside in our city, our country and beyond; our fellow Jews were fleeing or being deported and murdered. We waited for our poet to awaken while the world exploded and burned, hails of bullets lodged in the soft belly of decency and Nazism drowned Central Europe in a bath of its own rich warm blood.

  ‘Rafael?’

  ‘Papa!’

  He touched my hand with his own, pale and clawlike, and said, ‘Rafi, we did it.’

  I was startled. We did – what?

  His voice was roughened from sleep and pain. He said, ‘That’s what you must always do, dítě. Stand up for your beliefs. That’s the right way. It’s the only way.’

  I looked at his fluttering eyelids and bloodless lips, still cut from the bashing. ‘Papa,’ I said, ‘how are you feeling?’

  A hair-thin smile before he croaked, ‘Like a warrior-prince,’ then my mother rushed into the room and held his fragile brow, kissed him and cried. I left with two unspoken questions, both of which caused me great turmoil. One, how could he think that he had combatted those men when they had mocked him, tossed him about like a rag doll and punched him into the stones? Two, more critically, why even bother to stand up for beliefs such as his? Even now, looking from a distance, I see a loose meld of ideas come from pretentious poetry and empty philosophies and I think, what was the point?

  That day, early in 1941, as I gazed out the window at the snow-lined street, I was deeply unhappy because I was unable to deny a particular thought, a first-time thought … I had begun to wish that Josef Ullmann was no longer my father.

  It was some time before I gathered the courage to venture back to the streets. However, with a level of selfishness typical of both my age and character, I wanted to see Michal and the Old Man. Most of all, I wanted to resume my music.

  I come now to the second, even more terrifying incident.

  I took my customary route to the shop, making sure that I stuck to the edges of the streets and used the network of alleyways. Whenever I saw a group of soldiers I slipped into an empty doorway and squatted, making myself as small as possible. With my ragged coat and filthy shoes and cap I would have passed for a beggar or even a corpse, had they chosen to look. There were so many beggars on the streets waiting for either a morsel of bread or a slow cold death, the soldiers could hardly be bothered.

  I turned the corner nearest the shop and was surprised to see the Old Man standing in front of the window. The movement of his hands and head indicated that he was pleading. Three soldiers faced him, two with rifles aimed at his puny chest. The other soldier was pacing. I guessed that he was in charge.

  My heart thumping, I sneaked back into the alley from where I had come. There was a gate halfway down that led to a side lane. I scrambled onto the gate and used guttering and a pipe to heave myself onto the lowest part of the roof, opposite the Old Man’s shop. Then I slid across the shingles and saw –

  The Old Man raise his arms, his sleeves falling to reveal thin white sticks.

  The Leader go up to the Old Man, point into his face, yell obscenities and slap him.

  The Soldiers step closer.

  The Leader step back and howl an order.

  The Soldiers step closer, jiggle their rifles and centre their aim on the heart of the Old Man.

  The Old Man shudder with fear and cry out, ‘Please, please!’

  The Leader howl a second order.

  The Soldiers shoot – to the side of the Old Man, the shop window shattering, the noise of its demise resounding through the streets.

  Frightened, relieved, I rubbed my eyes before daring to look again. I saw and heard the Soldiers laugh as the Old Man crumpled, raising his eyes to the sky before bending to kiss the slush and muck. Then I saw –

  The Soldiers hoist their rifles onto their shoulders and turn away, as if done.

  The Leader pause in contemplation, take his pistol from its holster, point down – and shoot the Old Man in the back of the head.

  My child, it is distressing to once again recall this horror, distressing that I must ask you to join me as witness to the violent extinction of that which is most sacred, life. Life! One moment, a vital, kind being with memories and other enrichments; the next, a pile of cloth and flesh bleeding forlornly into the snow-covered stones.

  I gripped the icy shingles and thought that I would never let go. It seemed that Prague was perfectly still. The light distilled as new flakes of snow fell with the softness of feathers. I thought of birds and, strangely, I thought of firelight.

  Finally, I risked another glance. The soldiers had gone. The Old Man’s body lay motionless. No one had come to check.

  I left the roof, fell back to the alleyway, staggered into the street. The air was colder and sharper than the breath of Kostěj, the evil one who hides his soul so that he will never die. I could not feel my fingers or feet. I tried to ignore the prone figure and dark seepage of blood as I ran across the street, pushed open the door and entered the shop.

  He was huddled in the basement, the saxophone tight in his grasp. He shook when he saw me, cried out something unintelligible then said, ‘Rafi? Rafi, is he –’ and I nodded, bent my head and wept – for the Old Man and Michal, for the music, for everything.

  Time passed. At one point I heard Michal say, ‘The door was left open. They said he was a criminal, not permitted,’ and then, perhaps later, ‘I must go, I must go.’ When I heard the soft shuffle of his boots I raised my head and saw that he was standing near the door, holding a bag. The saxophone lay on its side, golden and useless: I thought of the crown of a deposed king.

  ‘Go?’ I repeated – as if I didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  He put down the bag and faced me. ‘I have one more uncle,’ he said, ‘in Bratislava. Not so kind, but,’ – he wiped his eyes – ‘family.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  He shook his head. I struggled to my feet, devastated by the thought of his departure. ‘Come with me,’ I implored. ‘We have a big apartment. My mother would welcome you and we could continue our lessons –’

  Michal’s smile, though gentle, was a perfect dampener to my plan. He came to me, held my arms and said, ‘Rafi, you and I, we are Jews, yes?’

  I nodded, thinking yes, but the music, the music –

  Michal said, ‘Then sooner or later we must both go.’

  He picked up his bag, left the saxophone where it lay and walked quickly through the doorway. It would be three long years before I saw Michal Laks again.

  The senseless nature of the Old Man’s death drugged me into a kind of stupor. Without fanfare or fuss I had recently turned twelve years of age, yet it seemed that I had already seen the worst of humanity, arising like some spectre from the depths to terrorise our lives. Murder, violence, endless rule-making and enforcement … how much further could we descend?

  I stayed off the streets. Polishing and silently keying the saxophone that I had secretly stored in the ceiling of our apartment was an occasional distraction, but generally the days and nights dragged. We were all hungry and cold and, except for my father, dispirited. Even Marika seemed to have lost the verve that had always defined her.

  The Nazis added more laws. No entry to public gardens. Special times to buy food. No entry to some streets. No telephones or apples.

  No clothes vouchers.

  No sugar.

  No fruit or cheese.

  The mandatory wearing of the infamous Yellow Star for any Jew aged six or over.

  September. The ghosts of the city were now walking hand in hand with its citizens. While Marika and I huddled in corners, our parents argued about fleeing Pra
gue. My mother wanted to join the Kozels, who were quietly arranging false identities so that they could travel south to Austria before crossing into Switzerland. My father refused.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Dangerous and unnecessary.’

  ‘You would rather stay here and starve?’

  ‘No, that is not my –’

  ‘Be taken outside and shot like a dog?’

  He sighed. ‘Anna,’ he said, ‘listen to me. This war will soon be over. I admit, there are troubles at present –’

  ‘You admit to troubles?’

  ‘– but Germany is, at its heart, a great nation. The nation that gave us Goethe and Brahms and Rilke will come to its senses before long.’

  My mother cried, ‘No, Josef, no! How can you be so blind –’

  ‘It is not blindness,’ he said calmly, ‘it is faith.’

  ‘Our people are dying!’

  ‘Our people have always died,’ he told her. ‘They have always been persecuted as we are now being persecuted. My wife, you know the history of the Hebrew.’ He ticked his fingers, ‘Orléans, Lorraine, Béziers. Toulouse, Toledo, Lisbon, Castile. Venice, the horrors of Kiev. Many places, many terrible crimes, but did our forebears run and hide? No. Did they change their names, flee to Switzerland and stand behind the cows? No.’

  ‘Josef,’ said my mother desperately, ‘think of the children. Marika, Rafael, think of them!’

  ‘But I am thinking of them,’ he said. ‘What kind of father recommends flight as the solution to a problem? What kind of father denies his children the chance to remain in their rightful home? Anna, I will not be that man. I am confident, and you may confidently pray; this war will finish, the university will reopen, we will return to our normal lives.’

  He wasn’t quoting Rilke or bandying metaphors. Nor was he correct.

  From that point on, events seemed to occur with a speed and inevitability that was beyond frightening.

  I was woken by Marika.

  ‘Get up! Soldiers –’

  The door had been kicked open. They stood in our main room, black-grey uniforms turning them to blocks of stone. Despite the weakness of the light their guns gleamed. I hid behind my parents and thought of the monsters that had dominated our childhood stories. It all seemed so long ago.

  Orders were barked, papers handed over. My father stood respectfully before saying in German, ‘Gentlemen, I believe this to be a mistake –’

  He was struck viciously by a rifle butt. The soldiers rapped out final instructions then left, sweeping aside a shelf’s worth of trinkets and frames on their way out.

  We had been given a summons – twenty-four hours to pack and report to the Trade Fair Palace. From there we would be transported –

  ‘Terezín,’ said my mother. ‘What is Terezín?’

  ‘Ghetto,’ said Marika. Her face was white. ‘I have heard Gretel’s father speak of this place. Mama –’

  They clung as one. I looked to my groaning father. Eventually he raised himself, wiped blood from his swelling cheek and said, ‘Well, I had hoped for this.’

  He supervised our packing: one case each, clothes, toiletries and a single valuable object; Marika, your diary or perhaps some pencils, Rafi, your chess set, Anna, the photographs and, of course, Rilke’s manuscript for me. Nothing shall prevent the sharing of such an important work … and look at this list: this is good, this is reasonable, we are permitted to take our paraffin stove, some candles, your mother’s sewing kit, my hammer and pliers …

  ‘Papa, my quilt?’ The one with the clowns, cherished –

  ‘No, Rafi, not on the list – but there will be new quilts! Exciting, is it not?’

  On and on. What an opportunity, he continued, for did you know this Terezín is not really a ghetto? Gretel’s father is perhaps misguided … this is a spa town built for Jews but not just any Jew, for these are people of substance! Some go there to retire but this is also the place where they send the musicians, writers, artists and leaders … it’s a regular hub, a community. Josef Ullmann and his family belong in such a place.

  He stood amid the chaos and proclaimed, ‘Let the lawmakers squabble and the armies fight while we sing and paint and translate – and when their battles are done, the sun will rise on our beautiful symphonies and soaring, magnificent poems!’

  My child, he was remarkably convincing. I almost believed him.

  Terezín was not as he had described.

  Before all that though, we had to walk through the streets being abused and spat on.

  ‘Jew dog!’

  ‘Moneylender!’

  ‘Stupid Yids!’

  Much of the abuse I did not understand. While my mother, Marika and I scuttled and dodged like insects awaiting the stomp of a boot, my father kept his head high and even nodded to some of the abusers as if to thank them.

  There were many, many people at the Trade Fair Palace. We ended up staying for six days, and it was certainly no palace. The conditions were terrible. Winter was nearly upon us and we were forced to sleep on the hard, cold floor, jammed up against other families. The toilets overflowed and the food rations were meagre.

  ‘Just wait till we get to Terezín,’ said my father, rubbing his hands in anticipation. Everyone else was scared, but he seemed to be relishing the situation. He even tried to make friends with some of the other men by telling them about his masterpiece, ‘Love and Sorrow’ in translation, and reciting some of the poems. Occasionally those men told him to go away in strong language, but generally they were too tired or preoccupied to protest. Like us, they soon decided that it was easier to pretend to listen and let him rattle away.

  Finally we were ordered to walk under guard to the train station. When we arrived we had to form a single file so that we could be given a number. I was 712.

  My child, it is difficult to describe the horror of this moment. The humiliation. The reduction. That last word especially. When the guards were far enough away, Marika whispered to me, ‘I am never a number!’ and I understood exactly what she meant. Number 712 is no different from number 711 or 642 or 123. The Nazis were shrinking us down to fit on a list, to be used in statistical calculations. Being assigned a number was, to my mind, worse than the laws limiting rations and rights or having to wear the Yellow Star.

  On the train even my father was quiet – although I did hear him occasionally muttering a favourite Rilke quote, ‘The dragons in our lives are princesses …’ Several hours later we arrived at a remote station surrounded by snowbound paddocks. The guards forced us at gunpoint to walk across the snow.

  In life there are, sadly, times when you are capable of no more than acceptance. You cannot challenge or fight or even seek to compromise because you do not have the will to do so. For myself, trudging across the icy paddocks was one of those times. It took a long time and my body was as numb as my mind, but finally we arrived at Terezín.

  How to describe this place? Had I known then what would happen later, I would have seen the so-called ‘settlement’ as paradise. But on first sight the high walls were frightening because they could mean only one thing: imprisonment.

  We assembled in a gravel yard and shivered in the bitterness. Then something happened that was sad, but strangely for Marika and I, also a kind of pleasure.

  The men of the families were taken away.

  People wept. Wives called out for their husbands. Children for their fathers. But our family remained stock still and silent as Josef Ullmann clutched his suitcase and was paraded away, head still up and bobbing about like a bird looking for food.

  ‘Good,’ said Marika fiercely. Her face was red and she was crying. Neither my mother nor I spoke.

  Despite the hardships we soon established a routine. This is, of course, how most of us cope with displacement, by reestablishing or reinventing our routines. In an alien world, it is a comfort to have chores and a schedule.

  Despite having to live in cramped barracks with other women and children, we found our own limited
area and began to organise the pieces of our lives around our straw mattresses.

  Three times a day we lined up for food. Watery coffee, bread, soup, sometimes a carrot or potato. It seems like little and it was, but our stomachs adjust with our expectations. We had enough to survive, which was all that mattered. I soon stopped dreaming about matzoh or challah, probably because my brain worked out that there was little point in doing so.

  All day we worked, digging deep protection trenches and holes into which we planted vegetables for our captors to eat.

  We didn’t go to school, obviously, but we did have secret lessons given by some of the older children. It was during this time at Terezín that I met two remarkable people.

  The first, Dominik, was tall, thin – we all were – and dark-haired with a wispy beard and spectacles that were, in the time that I knew him, never clean. Physically he resembled a mantis. Intellectually he was a gazelle.

  What do I mean by this? The gazelle leaps from rock to plateau. It runs with sustained speed until it can run no more. Its elegant form crosses entire continents. Its curiosity is both gentle and unending.

  I first met Dominik when he visited our barracks in the late afternoon, after work. I suppose he must have been around sixteen or seventeen years of age, although he always seemed older. A group of younger children had gathered around him. They were listening intently as Dominik instructed them in biology – or perhaps his lesson was a kind of parable.

  ‘Who knows the butterfly?’ he asked.

  All the children raised their hands except for a small boy with a scowly face.